


Caged hound

by Maroucia



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, book canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-31
Updated: 2013-09-28
Packaged: 2017-12-25 04:12:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/948490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maroucia/pseuds/Maroucia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An answer to The Moonmoth's prompt for the comment fic meme on the Sansa Sandor community on LJ : Sandor is Sansa's love slave. Sandor is made prisoner at Winterfell and Sansa is the lady of the castle. Warning for mild dubcon. NOT BETAED, to your own risks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [the_moonmoth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_moonmoth/gifts).



> I have written this for the comment fic meme on the Sansa_Sandor community on LJ. This is not betaed and not polished as I would normally like but has been written in good fun and therefore, I decided to share it anyway. I hope you'll all like it notwithstanding it flaws. Two more chapters should come shortly.

**Sansa**

 

It was well passed midnight when Sansa was awakened by Tom, the head of her guards.

 

“Lady Sansa,” he exclaimed through her door. “I’m very sorry to disturb you at this hour but an incident that has just taken place necessitates your attention immediately.”

 

“I’m coming,” she answered drowsily, stretching in her bed.

 

Although sleep still called her, Sansa was definitely curious to learn which matter might be so urgent that she’d be called from her bed in the middle of the night and besides, as she had been enthroned Lady of Winterfell only recently, anytime her authority was required she got as excited as a child. Tying the rope of her dressing gown tightly around her waist, Sansa tried to compose her face to look somewhat dignified before pushing the door open.

 

“What is it, Tom?” she asked, smiling at him.

 

“The Hound has been captured by some of my men.”

 

Her eyes widening, Sansa felt both of her hands going up to cover her mouth before she even had a chance to stop them. “He’s alive?!” she barely managed not to cry out.

 

Taking her emotion for something else, Tom tried to reassure her. “Yes, my lady, but don’t you worry he’s been chained and locked in a cell. He gave us quite a fight to begin with though. You wouldn’t believe the nerves he has; the man pretended we were mistaking, that he-”

 

“Is he _hurt_?” Sansa cut him without thinking. Reprimanding herself for such an unladylike reaction, she took a deep breath and hoped Tom didn’t take notice of how nervous she was at waiting for his answer.

 

A suspicious spark passed through the guard’s eyes but it was hastily concealed by his usual mask of deference. “No… well, not really at least. He’s been cut a few times but has nothing broken it seems.”

 

“Lead me to his cell,” Sansa ordered a little too promptly, she realised once the words had left her mouth.

 

The walk to the cells seemed to last for ever. Sansa didn’t know how to feel about meeting Sandor Clegane again. She hadn’t seen him since the night of the Black Water Battle but he had been an important part of her many lonely nights while she stayed at the Eyries. The very idea of how she had daydreamed about him so many times and especially, of what her reveries had implied made her blush in shame as she recalled them. She had never thought they’d meet again; he was supposed to be dead after all! His _status_ had made it less embarrassing to imagine anything she willed involving him, but now…

 

Nevertheless, the prospect of coming face to face with the object of her fantasies _made flesh_ was certainly exciting to Sansa. Would he make her heart beat as strongly as she had always pictured he would? Or perhaps would he scare her as he had when she were that frightened little girl in King’s Landing so many years ago. _No, I won’t cower for him anymore,_ Sansa decided, raising her chin high. After all, she was the Lady of Winterfell, had been _twice_ married and _twice_ widowed and had lived through more ordeals than most woman thrice her age. A simple outlaw shouldn’t intimidate her, especially one that had been chained-up in a cell of her own castle.

 

*****

 

The cell the Hound had been locked in was small and dim but it was far from the worst the castle had to offer. As he was the only prisoner in Winterfell at the present, the guards had been thoughtful enough to install him in an area that was usually meant for noble captives. The thought was surprising but Sansa quickly concluded that its proximity from their barrack had probably more to do with what motivated their decision than the will of a nice gesture.

 

The place was very cold and so dark that Sansa couldn’t even discern anything at first.

 

“Go find a maid and bring a brazier in here Tom. It’s freezing,” Sansa demanded her guardsman while hugging herself.

 

At hearing her talk, the Hound – which Sansa hadn’t even noticed yet – stirred from his place on the floor. By the grunts he made, Sansa surmised he had probably been asleep. The rough sound of his voice – even in growls - was exactly as she remembered and the realisation made Sansa bit her lip in anticipation. She couldn’t wait to see him properly.

 

“I can’t leave you alone in here with him, Lady Stark. Let me call for one of my man instead,” Tom proposed insistently.

 

“Don’t waste your time, Tom,” Sansa responded, trying to hide the mix of nervousness and excitement that assailed her by using the authoritative but kind tone her mother had always employed with retainers. “You told me yourself the Hound has been chained-up and furthermore, I’ve known him while I stayed in King’s Landing. He wouldn’t hurt me.”

 

“But, Lady Stark, I can’t-”

 

“You heard the lady, didn’t you? I’m no bloody threat,” the rasping voice of the Hound intervened.

 

A shiver went through Sansa at hearing him talk. It was indeed _truly_ him; there was no doubting it. _How_ and _why_ he had gotten near Winterfell was a mystery for now but she briefly thanked the gods for the present they had granted her anyway.

 

Tom was gazing at her queerly when Sansa raised her eyes at him again. “Ask Gretta for a brazier. I won’t bear for any of our guests, prisoner or not, to freeze to death in my father’s castle,” Sansa ordered him in a voice that meant she wouldn’t abide any more discussion.

 

The guard seemed hesitant at first but he shortly left the cell anyhow. After watching him get out the door, Sansa immediately returned her attention to Sandor Clegane’s dark shape on the floor. There was a small window nearby and the moonlight caught in the man’s eyes for an instant. Their intensity was even more striking than she recalled.

 

“You’ve known quite an advancement since we’ve last seen,” the man rasped lowly. “ _Lady of Winterfell._ The time where you were at the Lannister’s _mercy_ is now naught but a faraway memory. I congratulate you, _little bird_.”

 

The emotion Sansa felt at hearing him call her by the nickname he had given her all those long years ago was stronger than she could have predicted. For a couple of heartbeats, she was at a lost as what to reply. “I thank you. You… you-”

 

“Have known the _buggering_ opposite?” he hissed, baring his teeth in a mean half-grin.

 

“No! That’s not what I intended to say!” Sansa quickly replied, offended that he could even believe she would say something like that.

 

“But that’s what you thought. Don’t lie to me,” the Hound retorted sharply.

 

However Sansa would have preferred for it to be untrue, the man had indeed known quite a descent since he had left the Lannister’s service. It would have been dishonest to pretend otherwise and as Sandor Clegane had always hated liars, Sansa decided she would give him naught but the truth. “Well, the word is that you massacred a whole village. Anyone who manages to catch you is to send you to the capital so that you can be judged before a trial. That’s even the reason my guards arrested you…”

 

At that, Sandor Clegane snorted and his gaze was lost in the gloom for a moment. “So the bird truly didn’t come yet?”

 

“What bird?”

 

“I’ve been absolved from the _damned_ crime. Ravens have been sent to every buggering corner of the realm with the news,” the man replied wearily. Stretching his arms in a jingle of chains, he sighed deeply and resumed his explanation. “I was certain they’d fly faster than I could ride. Seems like I’ve been wrong…”

 

 _He’s innocent,_ Sansa mused, elated. She had always believed Sandor Clegane couldn’t possibly have committed all the atrocities the rumours accused him of having perpetrated but to hear it from his own lips and to know that he had been cleared by the Queen herself was certainly exalting. Notwithstanding the certitude she had he was telling the truth, Sansa was well aware though that until the raven came, she couldn’t liberate him.

 

 “Oh… I… I can’t act before I get the message. I hope you understand.”

 

The Hound snorted at her evident unease. “Seems bloody logic to me.”

 

Footsteps resounded from the corridor at that moment and instants later, Tom and Gretta – Sansa’s maid - entered in the cell with the brazier Sansa as demanded.

 

“Here you are, m’lady” Gretta announced with her usual joyful voice while Tom installed the brazier into the small fireplace.

 

Its light, plus the one emanating from the lantern Gretta held, gave Sansa her first good view of the Hound.

 

The man was ragged. His hair was greasy and every bit of him looked terribly dirty from the long journey he had accomplished but apart from that, he was in every way how Sansa remembered him. Her heart fluttering as fast as the wings of a flying bird, the young woman admired the broadness of his shoulders and the masculine lines of his face, utterly fascinated by the manly vision he was. Even the leathery flesh of his scars had gained an attractive quality to her eyes, Sansa realised while recollecting how it had felt under her fingers all these years ago.

 

Suddenly aware of how she had been staring at him in front of her servants, Sansa averted her eyes from the Hound’s body and began questioning him, if only to draw their attention elsewhere. “Are you… comfortable? Do you need anything?”

 

Sweeping his gaze around the cell, Sandor Clegane snorted and eyed Sansa with a slightly mocking expression. “Pretending that I’m _comfortable_ would mayhap be an overstatement but I’ve known worse,” he replied in that husky voice of him. Its sound was terribly sensual to Sansa’s ear.

 

Just as she was about to get absorbed into the sight of him again, the man shifted in his place and the rattle his chains made as their links clashed against each others reminded Sansa of the predicament he was in. Both of his wrists had been clapped in irons and two long chains of about two yards each were attached from him to the wall. They were long enough for him to rise and walk around a little but he couldn’t even get near the door or take more than two steps each side. Propped on one arm, the Hound was sitting directly on the stone ground, both of his legs stretched lazily before him. _He has been sleeping directly over the floor!_ Sansa realised with concern.

 

“Gretta, ask a stable boy to bring some fresh straw and a couple of blankets. And food too. I’m sure Sandor Clegane is starving,” Sansa demanded her maid, barely managing to mask the urgency in her tone.

 

“Yes, m’lady. Would you like to keep the lantern in here? It’s so dark; we can barely see anything,” the woman asked while handling the lamp to Sansa.

 

“Yes, thank you,” she answered, accepting the lantern.

 

With the light in hand, Sansa approached the Hound and noticed - eyes wide - that his tunic had been torn in a few places. Tom had told her earlier that there had been a struggle between his men and Sandor Clegane but the view of his blood shocked her nonetheless.

 

“Oh, you’ve been wounded!” she exclaimed, raising a hand to her heart. “We need to wake the maester !”

 

Barking a short, dry laugh, the Hound waved her worries away with the back of his hand. “No need for that, little bird. I’ve only been scratched. There’s nothing deeper than a half inch,”

 

Pretending not to note Tom stiffening at hearing the Hound’s pet name for her, Sansa took a few steps toward her prisoner until less than a yard separated them. “If that is so, then I’ll take care of your wounds myself. Gretta!” she called, gazing at her maid. “Bring me some boiling wine, a bucket of water and some clean towels, please.”

 

“Yes, m’lady,” the maid answered promptly before leaving the cell. She was very obedient and Sansa couldn’t help herself at that moment from wishing that her head guard was a little more like her.

 

Turning toward him, she gave the man a tight smile. “Tom, you may leave. I’m certain you must be extremely tired,” she said, praying the gods that he wouldn’t insist otherwise.

 

It had been too much hoping for, evidently. “But, Lady Stark!” he began. “I can’t leave you by-”

 

“Don’t worry, Tom,” Sansa cut him. She had better show him immediately that she’d be inflexible on the matter or else, he’d never abdicate. “That’s very thoughtful of you but all is fine. You may go.”

 

The man seemed to hesitate at first. For a few long and awkward seconds, he even glared in the Hound’s direction, but then he bowed at Sansa and left.

 

“Eager to protect you, this one,” Sandor Clegane rasped with contempt once the guard was gone. “He gave me quite a warning look before he left. I better not touch you the _wrong_ _way_ or else, he’ll cut my throat in the morning,” he added, evidently as much amused as annoyed by Tom’s attitude.

 

“His intentions are good. Don’t blame him,” Sansa excused her guard while nervously clutching at the lantern with both hands.

 

“I don’t. I’d do the same,” the Hound retorted in a murmur while keeping his intent grey stare fixed on her.

 

At that instant, Sansa became very aware of the thinness of the simple dressing gown she was wearing. She could feel Sandor Clegane’s eyes roving all over her curves and the sensation made her blush in something that didn’t have much to do with shame. A long silence stretched between them and Sansa was just starting to get uncomfortable when she thought of a question to ask him.

 

“You said you rode here as soon as you’ve been absolved,” she began. “Why?”

 

A small, wry smile stretched the man’s lips. “There are not many places where my presence is welcome anymore. Cleared or not, my name is still cursed most anywhere, especially in the Riverlands. I could have stayed in the capital but I had enough of the damned place. When I heard you were the new _Warden of the North_ , I figured I could offer you my sword. You have every reason for not wanting me anywhere near you though, so if you’re not interested in having me, I’ll leave as soon as the raven comes.”

 

“No, don’t!” Sansa objected even before she could think it through. It didn’t matter though. There was no way in all of Westeros that she could refuse his proposition. The whole situation was like a dream come true. “I’ll gladly accept your allegiance. We’re always in need of skilled warriors at Winterfell,” she continued, trying to sound more poised than she previously had.

 

The sound of people approaching prevented Sansa from adding anything else and she instinctively took a step back. Although there was nothing inappropriate about their conversation, she was uneasy at the notion that outsiders witnessed her reunion with the Hound.

 

“Here, m’lady” Gretta said while settling a tray of food on the ground.

 

Two other maids followed her with the boiling wine, the water and the towels, and three boys shortly arrived with a load of straw and the blankets Sansa had asked for. Politely, Gretta demanded Sandor Clegane to rise so that the straw could be laid. The man didn’t object and stood in a clatter of iron. To give the boys some space as they settled his bed, the man took a step toward Sansa and the young woman was instantly impressed by his height. She hadn’t forgotten how tall he was but seeing it in truth was not the same as remembering it in her daydreams. In their proximity, Sansa swiftly began smelling the odour that oozed from him. The Hound had evidently not cleaned up for a long time, however, even as she realised she should be repelled, Sansa couldn’t restrain herself from inhaling more deeply. For some reason, the sent of his sweat didn’t repulse her as it normally should have. Quite the contrary in fact. If she hadn’t controlled herself at that moment, Sansa might have actually buried her face unto his chest until she drowned in his sent. The idea both shocked and stirred her.

 

“All is ready, m’lady,” Gretta informed Sansa, taking her from her reverie.

 

Blushing at the thought that she had let herself get into such a state in public, Sansa bit her lip and thanked her servants. “You can all leave and go back to sleep,” she told them, trying to sound calmer than she felt. “I won’t be needing any of you before morning.”

 

Bowing, the maids walked out of the cell, quickly followed by the stable boys. Sansa watched them as they went and took a deep breath. She had no clue of what to expect but the prospect of spending some time alone with Sandor Clegane was certainly nerve-racking… in a queerly pleasant manner, she realised, a small smile curving her lips.

 

For an unknown number of seconds Sansa stood in place, staring at the ajar door of the cell. A panic akin to the one she had so often lived while she were hostage in King’s Landing was quickly shrouding her newborn assurance and shivers were uncontrollably gaining her limbs. How by the gods should she behave – _alone! -_ with Sandor Clegane? _I need to calm down,_ she decided taking a deep breath. _After all, I am the one in control here and the Hound is nothing but my prisoner until he is proven innocent._ With that in mind, she turned around and gazed up at the man.

 

“Where are you hurt?” she asked as matter-of-factly as she could muster although most of his wounds were visible.

 

“ _Hurt_ ’s not the word I would use but your bloody guards scratched me over there,” he answered, pointing at his chest and arms in a jingle of chains.

 

With her eyes, Sansa followed his hands as they showed her his cuts and she was instantly transfixed by their largeness and apparent strength. Some improper part of her couldn’t help but wonder how they would feel trailing down her body and imagine the firm hold they would have on her hips as she straddled him. Biting her lips, Sansa tried to chase the licentious images from her mind as soon as they formed, only, that same _part of her_ seemingly didn’t want to yield so easily.

 

Notwithstanding the internal combat that was hastily building in her, Sansa managed to shake herself and nodded at the makeshift bed on the ground. “Sit down, please. It will be far easier for me to work this way,” she told the Hound a little more stiffly than she had intended. While she regretted the tone she had used as soon as the command left her mouth, Sansa had to admit to herself that appearing more confident than she actually felt was perhaps her best chance of hiding the truth of her agitation.

 

Despite what she had feared, her authoritative attitude didn’t seem to bother the Hound at all. Without uttering so much as a single of his usual scornful or mocking comments, the man complied and did exactly as she asked. His unexpected obedience roused something in Sansa and although she didn’t quite understand what it might be, she nevertheless revelled in what the unknown feeling triggered in her and realised - unsettled – that she yearned for more of its taste.

 

The boiling wine filled cauldron and clean towels Sansa had asked for were all near Sandor Clegane enough and therefore, the young woman immediately got on her knees next to him and began inspecting his injured chest and arms. While their proximity was exalting, Sansa kept repeating to herself that her enthusiasm was not something the Hound should take notice of and so, she kept her eyes on his chest and tried to focus solely on his physical condition. There was no denying however, that focusing on his _physical condition_ could be interpreted in a different way - of that Sansa was well conscious – nevertheless such thoughts required to be chased from her mind even before they formed completely if she truly wished to keep her composure. The task would prove harder than it appeared, Sansa had to admit to herself.

 

Sandor Clegane was still garbed in the same clothing he had been wearing when Tom and his men had arrested him and the many layers of wool and roughspun were preventing Sansa from getting a good idea of the severity of his state. Approaching even closer, she laid a hand over the dirty fabric and was taken aback when she saw how the man tensed under her touch. Could her contact possibly make him… _nervous_?  

 

“I’ll need to tear your clothes,” she announce, struggling not to sound as aghast at her own words as she felt. Her face was burning with shame but somehow, the prospect of having such a perfect opportunity of laying her eyes over the Hound’s brawny torso was enough to give her all the resolve she needed. Once she gathered enough courage to raise her gaze at him, Sansa wasn’t truly surprised by the unreadable expression he wore, however, something in his eyes told her that he hadn’t been expecting her boldness.

 

“Do it if you have to. They’re really no more than rags anyhow,” he rasped, staring sideway as he told her so. If she had not known better, Sansa might have actually started believing the situation was _indeed_ making him uneasy but he was _the Hound_ after all and so, she instantly discarded the notion as foolish.

 

Delicately, Sansa began to feel the fabric that covered Sandor Clegane’s broad chest. It was a pity she hadn’t asked Gretta for a dagger or some scissors but at least the cloth was worn out enough that she’d most likely manage to rend it with her bare hands where it had been cut open. There was only one way of finding out though and thus, an instant later, she was grasping the levels of wool and roughspun one after the other and tearing them open, the loud creaking sound the fabrics made almost shocking in the previously so silent cell.

 

Jolting under Sansa’s _attack_ at first, the Hound nevertheless quickly relaxed and let her proceed once his surprise had faded. “So you’ve got claws after all,” he muttered in a voice that sounded as much amused as astounded when she was finished.

 

Sansa almost giggled at his comment but she quickly swallowed back her laughter when she realised she had opened the front of the Hound’s upper garbs almost completely. The sight of his bare chest and of those thick arms was mesmerizing enough that Sansa felt as if time had stopped for a moment. His muscles were sculpted with even more definition than she had envisioned in her wildest dreams and she now longed for naught more than to trace their shape with her palms and dig her fingers in the coarse, dark hair that covered his skin.

 

The awareness that she was staring at his torso hitting her at last, Sansa averted her eyes - a deep blush covering her cheeks - while hoping Sandor Clegane had not noticed the attention she had inadvertently been giving his body. She needed to gain control over the situation _at once_ before he did himself, and thus Sansa reached for the towels Gretta had left for her use and hurried to fill the silent that hung between them.

 

“You were right,” she began, willing her tone to sound poised. “None of your wounds are truly deep. I don’t believe you’ll need any stitches but some wine on those cuts won’t harm either.”

 

The Hound snorted at that. “Some wine in my belly wouldn’t hurt too.”

 

“Well, perhaps if you _behave_ , I’ll ask Getta to bring you some later,” Sansa replied even before she had a chance to realise how awful the words sounded. Instantly ashamed of her crude proposition, she gazed - eyes wide and certain he would rebuff her - at Sandor Clegane and was immediately relieved by the amused smirk he was giving her.

 

“Don’t worry, little bird,” he murmured in that hoarse voice of his. “I don’t plan on giving you much _trouble_.”

 

Taking a deep breath, Sansa dipped a towel into the wine cauldron and turned her attention on the Hound’s wounds again. The man had been cut three times on his chest and another across his upper arm. Many older scars – undoubtedly engendered by far more vicious injuries - were visible all over his torso and Sansa couldn’t help but wonder how he had gotten them all.

 

“There’s no questioning you are a warrior looking at you. Are your scars mostly from practice or actual battles?” she asked, immediately blushing at her own indiscretion while brushing the towel over a cut on his chest.

 

At the contact of the burning wine, Sandor Clegane tensed slightly but he shortly relaxed and leaned lazily on his hands again. “Well, I’d lie to pretend that I recall each of them but I’d say both are pretty equal.” At that, he snorted a short laugh. “Some I’ve got while I was drunk and didn’t even remember what happened when I awoke the next day,” he then added with a smirk.

 

“That’s terrible! You shouldn’t be proud of such a thing!” Sansa exclaimed, halting in her cleaning to gaze at the Hound with wide eyes.

 

Her reaction seemed to amuse him. “I wouldn’t go as far as to say that I’m _proud_ , but I’m certainly not ashamed,” he retorted, a wicked grin stretching his lips. “Being a drunkard is naught special among sellsword and most of them buggers got far worse than I did at a point or another of their _career_. I’m sure I’ve been the cause of a few harsh hangovers myself now that I come to think about it.”

 

Not the least convinced by his explanation, Sansa lowered her eyes over her work. “Nevertheless, this is _horrible_ ,” she whispered, her lips set in a thin line.

 

 The Hound barked a rough laugh at that and Sansa was immediately absorbed by the way the action made his massive chest move under her fingers. _If only I could touch him more directly,_ Sansa regretted, cursing the towel that separated her skin from his. There was no denying however, that as the position she was in - on her knees, facing his side – wasn’t extremely comfortable, it would only be natural if she needed to lean her free hand over him to get some balance. _Sandor Clegane won’t think anything of it_ , she decided, laying her palm lightly over his shoulder. Albeit she was certain he didn’t mind, Sansa didn’t dare gaze at him afterward for fear that he read her real motive and uttered one of his crude remarks just as soon. And furthermore, it was far easier keeping her _lady-selflessly-doing-her-duty_ façade while keeping her eyes lowered. Her feigned seriousness didn’t stop her though from revelling in the feel on his warm skin under her palm. She longed to stroke his strong arms in all their width but resolved on acting more subtly, shifting her hold on him from time to time so slightly that she was certain he didn’t even notice. If only she could trail her fingers all over him, from the breadth of his shoulders to the line of dark hair that disappeared so appealingly under his breeches, as freely as she wished! His body was so solid, large and manly that it would have made any man appear boyish in comparison, starting with Sansa’s late second husband - the only man she had known intimately. Never before had she been so drawn to touch a male as she was at that moment and it was truly a miracle she contrived to resist rubbing his rippling torso at all.

 

Once the wounds were all cleaned a few minutes later, Sansa tossed her used towel aside and raised her gaze for the first time in several minutes. She opened her mouth to speak and was about to inform the Hound that all was done when she realised how brazenly he was staring at her breasts. Immediately, she looked down and was abashed to see the extend to which the loose fabric of her dressing gown had opened. Bowed as she was, her cleavage was more than evident; in fact from his place, Sandor Clegane could almost see _everything_! By reflex, Sansa braced her back and folded her arms before her. In a heartbeat, her whole body was covered with a deep blush and all she could do was stare at the Hound with eyes as round as saucers, her lips opened in shock.

 

“Oh, you… you…” she trailed off, totally clueless as whether she should be outraged or flattered.

 

Obviously embarrassed to have been caught, the Hound turned his head to gaze away from Sansa and scowled. “Well, you can’t really blame a man for looking, can you? Your teats were _right_ in my bloody face after all,” he justified in a tone that made it seem as if Sansa was the one to be reproved.

 

Biting her lips, Sansa unfolded her arms and adjusted her dressing gown more tightly around her. She had reacted out of surprise and was now coming to the conclusion that Sandor Clegane’s attention didn’t truly offend her. On the contrary, her body was now starting to react at the knowledge that he had been scrutinising such an intimate part of her with undeniable interest. As if they had a mind of their own, her nipples grew hard in an instant, peaking through the thin fabric of her dressing gown in an apparent wish to keep the Hound’s attention on themselves. In the same breath, her core filled with butterflies and their fluttering was getting increasingly intense with each of her heartbeats. An uncontrollable curiosity was quickly taking over her and as Sansa had no real will to oppose it, she lowered her stare down the Hound’s torso to his groin and realised, gasping, that the man was undeniably… _aroused_.

 

When he noticed where Sansa’s eyes had landed and saw her stunned expression, Sandor Clegane grunted with irritation and his expression darkened. “Oh, by the Seven Hells, little bird! Don’t you _fucking_ pretend to be surprised about that too. You’ll never make me believe that you don’t know what nice teats you have.”

 

Sansa barely managed not to smile at his response. For some reason, she yearned to sooth his building rage by offering him an even better look but another even stronger impulse had already gained control of her. Even before she could think it over, Sansa raised her hand, brought it between the Hound’s legs and seized his hard manhood through the rough wool of his breeches.

 

“What the fuck,” he breathed more than he exclaimed, evidently astounded by the unexpected gesture.

 

Laying her free hand over his shoulder, Sansa buried her face into the crook of the Hound’s neck and inhaled deeply, filling her lungs with his scent. Although he stayed silent, she could sense his incomprehension but there was no explaining her irrational conduct and thus, Sansa didn’t bother uttering a single word. Her fingers were feeling the shape of Sandor Clegane’s member almost frantically and with each detail they took in, she was more and more fascinated by the apparent _size_ of him. Keeping her face nuzzled into the man’s neck, Sansa began to unlace his breeches _as fast as she could_. The wanton part of her was in a race against her genteel side and she was well aware that if she didn’t act swiftly, reason might win the battle and very soon, compel her to halt her lewd actions. There was not _an instant_ to spare and therefore, the Hound’s stiff manhood was freed in a question of seconds. A moan escaped Sansa’s lips at the feel of the heavy and warm member against her palm, the softness of its skin so rousingly contrasting in comparison to the hardness it covered. The sensation was enough to send Sansa’s loins throb with desire. Without even realising it, she began squirming against him - as if she didn’t know what to do with herself - while moving her hand up and down his length and admiring the crude perfection of his shaft.

 

“Little bird…” she heard the Hound whisper so very hoarsely. By his tone, he seemed more confused than she had ever seen him before, but as there was naught reproachful in his voice, she gathered the courage she needed to raise her head and look at him.

 

The man was staring at her with wide, bewildered eyes, his mouth slightly opened, and he was groaning with each of the comings-and-goings of her slender hand on him. His obvious pleasure inciting her to continue, Sansa increased the force and speed of her movements while letting her eyes fall over his manhood again. Although she wasn’t extremely experienced in the matter - having known only her late husband - there was no doubting that Sandor Clegane was far larger than the vast majority of men. An incontrollable desire to learn how such a big member would feel sheathed between her thighs was quickly overwhelming her. Her lady’s parts were already seeping with moisture and aching to be invaded. As Sansa was well aware that she had to act quickly before she came to her senses and risked becoming petrified by shame, she resolved once more to act as hastily as she could.  

 

Staring at the Hound’s dark, lustful eyes, the young woman removed her hand from his shaft and stood. The man let out a deep, surprised breath and stirred in a crackle of chains, craning his neck to see what she was up to. 

 

In one fast movement, Sansa raised her skirt, kicked her underclothes away and straddled him, seizing his member as she installed herself over his lap. Sandor Clegane’s expression was even more lost than previously; Sansa had never seen him look even a fraction as disconcerted as he did now. There was something very empowering about their unlikely situation and the notion that _she_ was the one in control while he was totally at her mercy heated Sansa’s insides with unprecedented strength, her lower belly burning as hot as the most unappeasable fire there was.

 

“What the fuck are you doing, you crazy bird?!” the Hound growled in a mystified tone as Sansa began to push his shaft into her slick folds. At the feeling, he threw his head back, shut his eyes and moaned. “Oh _gods_ , you feel good, little bird! If I’d known this was how you bloody _northern women_ treat your prisoners, I’d have gotten myself caught a long time ago.”

 

Smirking at his response, Sansa finished sliding Sandor Clegane’s member into her, seeing stars as she felt herself stretch around him. The sensation was simply _amazing_ and she couldn’t restrain a very unladylike groan from escaping her lips as she adjusted her position on him. Never beforehad she felt so filled– _literally_ \- and she couldn’t believe that something so basic might possibly be the source of so much pleasure. She thirsted for more of him though, and therefore she began rocking her pelvis against the Hound, rejoicing at the bolts of lightning each shove birthed in her. In the midst of it all, Sansa’s dressing gown had once more loosened around her cleavage but she couldn’t have cared less at that moment and didn’t hesitated an instant before pushing the fabric apart, until her breasts were completely uncovered and bouncing freely right under the Hound’s nose. The man grunted hungrily at the view and raised a hand in a jingle of chains to grab one and suck its taut nipple with his mouth. With his other hand, he clasped Sansa’s hip, guiding her movements while moulding the shape of her curve and backside. The contrast between the warm contact of his lips, tongue and hands, and the biting coldness of the steel of his chains as they kept brushing against her was shocking but somehow, didn’t bother Sansa the least.

 

“Gods, little bird! You’re so fucking tight. Are you sure your husbands didn’t both leave you maiden after all?” Sandor Clegane rasped, burying his face into Sansa’s neck and hair.

 

At the mention of her late husbands, Sansa felt a twinge of annoyance. _Why should he bring them up_ now _?_ shewondered, losing her focus for a brief instant. In something akin to a revengeful gesture, she pressed both her hands over the Hound’s shoulders and pushed him down with all the might she had until he was laying on his back over the makeshift bed.

 

The man growled and let out a short, hoarse laugh in reaction. “Fuck! That’s not the little bird I knew in King’s Landing,” he muttered, astonished. “Can’t say I mind the change though.”

 

Both her hands resting over his heavily muscled chest, Sansa resumed grinding her hips against the Hound’s, but this time she began pushing against her nub and squeezing it under her weight as he thrust himself between her thighs. The pressure it induced was so utterly delicious that Sansa could already feel her climax building in her. Stroking Sandor Clegane’s torso with lust, she bit her lip and began to whimper, the intensity of her cries increasing in the same cadence than the exhilarating contractions of her lady’s parts around his manhood. Silenced at last, the Hound was watching her with undeniable fascination, his hands urgently travelling all along her sides and thighs in a continuous clatter of steel.

 

“Oh… Ooh, yes!” Sansa moaned when she finally came to completion.

 

In an explosion of bliss, her peak flowed over her and she cried out with no restraint whatsoever, throwing her head back while never halting in the frantic thrusting of the Hound’s shaft in her. Never before had she experienced such a powerful climax and in a will to make it last for ever, she kept pushing her nub against the man’s groin, over and over again, adamant about extracting every single last drop of ecstasy she might from her tender folds.

 

“Little bird… careful…I’m coming,” Sandor Clegane warned her suddenly, out of breath and trying to push her from his lap.

 

Unwilling to let go of her own pleasure while she still rode its last waves, Sansa locked her legs tightly around him. “I don’t care. I’ll take moon tea,” she managed to breath out as she stubbornly kept rocking her hips against his.

 

Not hard to convince, the Hound seized both her hips and began sheathing himself between her thighs with regained strength, until he was shacking, panting and groaning, his fingers digging into Sansa’s skin with so much force that it almost hurt. Almost.

 

They rested against each other for a couple of minutes afterward, both silent and exhausted but their peace was short lived as reality shortly hit on Sansa. _Oh gods, what did I just do?_ she cried out inwardly, appalled that she could have acted so despicably. A lady’s duty was to look after her people and treat her enemies with respect but what she had just done - with a prisoner! – was simply inappropriate and scandalous!

 

At the realisation, she immediately rose from Sandor Clegane, grasped her underclothes and took a step back, eyes wide, while smoothing her skirt and adjusting the cleavage of her dressing gown until her neckline was as modest as possible.

 

After about a minute of horrified stillness, she finally regained her voice and spoke. “Your… wounds are all cleaned up now. I better go back to sleep,” she stated nervously before turning around and striding out of the cell.

 

“Come back anytime you like,” she heard the Hound yell as she shut the door behind her.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s another chapter of this ridiculous story I’ve started. Hope you’ll all enjoy! Once again this is neither betaed nor extreme polished. Be warned.

**Sandor**

Life as a prisoner in Winterfell’s cells wasn’t as hard as one might expect. Since Sandor had been captured yesterday night, not only had he been given a bed almost as comfortable as the one he had slept upon while he stayed at the Quiet Island, but a brazier had been lighted in his cell. Warm meals had been brought to him three times today, as if he were any regular buggering guest, and Sandor suspected that he had been offered the same menu than the rest of the household given the quality of the food. As if that wasn’t enough already, Gretta – the little bird’s maid – had given him a skin of wine, additional blankets and asked her helpers to empty his chamber pot and revive the brazier anytime they brought him his meals. If he hadn’t been chained to the wall, Sandor might have actually believed he was a bloody guest of honour.

 

Nevertheless, all those niceties were nothing in comparison to the special _attention_ the lady of the castle had given him yesterday night. At the mere memory of how she had cared for his _wounds_ , Sandor felt his lips stretch in a wide, smug grin. It wasn’t a common thing that women jumped at him like cats in heat. In fact, it was the first bloody time in his whole miserable life that a female did anything even slightly similar. He was used to wenches running in fright at his sight, not the fucking opposite! To say that he had _appreciated_ the experience would have been quite an understatement. Even now, as he remembered how wildly she had behaved and how fucking perfect her cunt had felt around his cock, Sandor’s shaft was growing as hard as a rock all over again and that, even though he had already fucked his hand more than a couple of times today. There weren’t a lot of things he could do to pass the time after all, chained as he was, and besides, there was not a damned chance in all of Westeros that he might have succeeded in thinking of anything else while the images of the little bird’s unexpected _attack_ were still so fresh in his mind. What a determinate and hot-blooded creature she had become! And beyond that, her beauty had only increased with the years; she was simply _fucking_ stunning. Sandor was ready to be the victim of her carnal needs anytime again if that was her wish. There was no denying that he was at her mercy anyhow and would obviously not be going anywhere in the days to come, he reflected with a satisfied smirk.

 

 

****

 

 

The sound of the heavy door as it was unlocked was what awoke Sandor about an hour later. He had fallen asleep without even realising it and was now wondering who could possibly be looking for him at such a late hour of the night. _Could it be…?_

As the door opened and he saw the little bird’s slender silhouette take form into the dark corridor, Sandor smirked in wicked contentment. What would she want from him this time around? He could only hope that she had regained some of the hunger she had had yesterday and was ready for her next spread. As for him, he could already feel himself hardening in his breeches at the mere thought that she might be craving for his cock once more.

 

“You can leave the hot water and soap here, Gretta. Thank you,” the little bird ordered her maid.

 

The woman was following her with a steaming cauldron in hands, which she settled over the floor not too far from Sandor. Once she was done, she fished a loaf of soap and a rag out of her apron and gave them to the little bird. “Will you need anything else, m’lady?” she asked politely.

 

“No all is fine, Gretta. You may go,” Sansa answered kindly while watching her servant leave the cell. She had a large towel thrown over her shoulder and Sandor snorted as he realised her intensions.

 

“So, you thought I _stank_ ,” he rasped, a wolfish grin twisting his lips. “Can’t say I disagree.”

 

The little bird seemed a little taken aback by his directness. She stayed glued at her place near the door for an instant, biting her lip, but then smiled shyly and approached him. “Well, you did smell quite strongly and still do. I’m very sorry to say so but I’d lie to pretend otherwise,” she murmured, an adorable blush reddening her perfect cheeks. “I’m sure you didn’t have many occasions to bathe as you travelled though. I’m not blaming you of course.”

 

Sandor had to snort at that. _Always so polite and well mannered, even after she jumped over my cock yesterday in the most licentious fashion there is and that, without even asking for my permission first._ “That’s very kind of you, little bird,” he answered in mocking courtesy while letting his gaze rove over her curves. She was wearing the same dressing gown she had on the previous night. That was certainly a good sign; the garment had been perfectly adapted for the kind of _activity_ they had practiced after all. “Are you planning on washing me yourself,” he asked lowly, eyes narrowed at her in challenge.

 

Timidly averting her gaze, the little bird curved her lips in a coy smile. “To be honest, I’m not certain you’d managed it without assistance as those chains won’t allow you to move properly. I’ll gladly help you but first, I’ll need to rid you of these rags you’re wearing,” she said, taking a small dagger out of her pocket. With some hesitance, she gazed at him again, her lovely face flushed almost as red as her hair. “I’m sorry if this seems a little rude, however I don’t see how I could free you from your tunics otherwise while you still have those irons clasped around your wrists. I hope you’ll excuse me.”

 

Sandor almost barked out a laugh at her absurd embarrassment. “You think I give a shit about those old tattered tunics? Do what you need, woman. I’m all yours anyhow.”

 

Seemingly reassured by his approval, the little bird kneeled next to him and set the towel, soap and rag over the floor before beginning slicing her dagger through Sandor’s old tunics. The garbs complained in loud creaks as she shred them in tatters and threw every piece over the ground. The avidity with which she was destroying his clothing was once more unsettling to Sandor. Among all the fantasies implying her he had build over the years in his head, never had he envisioned such a scenario but there was no denying that the sight held its own beauty. She had the fierceness of the wolf in her and Sandor was entranced at being allowed a glimpse of that hidden part of her.

 

Once his torso was completely bare, the little bird’s gaze wandered impudently down his chest and abdomen but she shortly shook herself and stood. “You should probably… take your… breeches off too,” she told him, suddenly shy again.

 

There was something very paradoxical about the girl’s timidity considering that she had just torn his tunics and demanded him to strip. _Not to forget how out of control she has become yesterday after glimpsing my hardened member._ Sandor was not about to refuse her request though – or perhaps, especially because of that. “Anything you ask, _Lady Stark_ ,” he answered smugly.

 

In a clatter of steel, he rose from his place on his bed and began unlacing his breeches, feeling his hard cock through the fabric. Bashful, the little bird averted her eyes from him and Sandor had to grin at the incongruity of her actions.

 

“I reckon you’ll want me to remove my underclothes too, am I right, little bird?” he inquired, staring at her dainty profile, once he had kicked his breeches away.

 

Not daring to look back at him, she nodded. “Well… yes,” she began in the smallest of voices. “That would probably be better if you wish to be truly clean…”

 

Biting his lip in hunger, Sandor cocked his head aside as if he was pondering her words. “If you think that’s for the best, I’ll do it then, little bird,” he rasped after a few breaths, while unburdening himself of his last garment.

 

Eyes lowered in a ludicrous show of modesty, Sansa waited until she was certain he had finished before turning her face on him again, but even then she didn’t dare gaze straight at him. “Perhaps it would be preferable that you moved aside so that no water falls over your bed,” she proposed.

 

“Seems logic enough to me,” Sandor muttered while doing as she bid.

 

His cock was stiff and rocking in the air before him from his recent movement when the little bird finally laid eyes on him. Her gaze instantly felled over his erect member and Sandor’s grin broadened even more when he saw her eyes widening. Could she _truly_ be surprised that he was aroused while she had just destroyed his clothes and bid him to undress _before her_? The girl would be a bloody hypocrite to pretend that she hadn’t predicted he might respond as he was – especially after the previous night’s events – but mayhap that was what made her reaction all the more amusing. Nevertheless, as Sandor had naught to gain at making her even more nervous than she was already, he settled on keeping his nasty remarks for himself for once.

 

  “I… I won’t be able to wash your hair and face if you stand. Could you sit, please?”

 

“Why not,” Sandor replied with a smirk.

 

An instant later, he was installed over the cold stone floor, leaned back on his hands and legs parted enough that the little bird could have a good view of his hard shaft. He had no intention in allowing her to forget about his state.

 

Kneeling next to him, she dipped her rag in the steaming water and began rubbing the soap against it until it lathered.

 

“Bow your head please,” she demanded with her usual politeness.

 

There was no reason for Sandor to refuse her and so he leaned his head onto her. The little bird immediately began rinsing his hair and massaging his scalp, soaking and wringing the rag a few times over him until she deemed that part of him clean enough to her taste. Afterward, she started brushing the fabric over his face and Sandor raised his head slightly to help her with her work. Shutting his eyes to protect them from the soapy water, the man sighed in pleasure at the sensation of the girl’s soft fingers as they worked in team with the rag over his ravaged features. Although he couldn’t see her, Sandor could feel the little bird’s stare on him and he couldn’t help but wonder what could possibly be going through her head as she washed his gruesome burns. Could she possibly like what she saw? There was no logic in the idea but Sandor hadn’t been the one to start all this after all: _she_ had. Somewhere along her journey, the little bird had apparently picked up a taste for the ugliest and coarsest brutes she could find, however, Sandor would have been a buggering fool to complain about her new twisted penchant.

 

The girl’s hands left his face and went down his neck and shoulders, pouring warm water over his skin and rubbing the dirt from him with her rag. Pushing aside the sodden locks of hair that were plastered over his face in a jingle of chains, Sandor opened his eyes and gazed at the little bird as she dutifully worked on his upper body.

 

She was rubbing her rag over his chest, the water frothing into the coarse hair when her gaze suddenly met his.

 

“Little bird, tell me,” Sandor began, his eyes gleaming with mischief and lust both. “Is it usual for you to wash your prisoners _yourself_ as you’re doing now?”

 

Lowering her eyes, the girl smiled shyly and uttered a soft giggle. “I couldn’t say; you’re the first one we ever got since I’m _Lady of Winterfell_.”

 

Sandor snorted at her answer. “I’m privileged then,” he breathed, throwing his head back in satisfaction.

 

 “Stretch your arms before you, please,” Sansa instructed him once all the soap was gone from his chest.

 

Acceding to her request, Sandor straightened his back and raised his right arm before him, his chain tautening in a loud clang and preventing him from extending his limb fully. _Oh, right,_ he mused, slightly annoyed. A man didn’t get used that easily at being in tethers.

 

Starting with his hand, the little bird began rubbing and rinsing his arm, ridding him of any trace of dirt the eye could see until only his armpit remained unclean. In an unexpected gesture, she then picked up the soap, lathered it between her palms and tossed it before bringing her hands under his arm to massage him there as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

 

“Little bird, you know I neither changed nor bathe properly for more than a fortnight, do you?” Sandor asked, grinning like a fool. The feel of her agile fingers as they stroked him was tickling him and he had to fight not to pull away from her.

 

“All the more reason for me to wash you everywhere, don’t you think?” she answered, with an amused smile while seizing his other arm and proceeding with her ministrations.

 

She knew no limits, it seemed. What sort of woman dared laying hands over such a place on a man’s body after he had travelled for so long?  _This one, it seems,_ Sandor concluded with a smirk.

 

Notwithstanding the undeniable pleasure the little bird’s soft caresses were bringing him, Sandor was nevertheless slowly starting to get impatient. It was all good that she wished him clean and pink as a bloody newborn - but by the _Seven buggering Hells_! - did she really need to be _that_ meticulous? The girl was rubbing every fucking inch of his skin so attentively that Sandor might have believed she wished him to shine as brightly as silverware. By the time she’d get to his cock, chances were the man would have already turned completely mad with longing. How long would it take before she got to _that_ part of him?

 

“Could you please raise now? I’ll clean your legs, if you don’t mind,” the little bird whispered softly, eyes lowered over her rag, once she was _at last_ done with his arms.

 

“Why the fuck would I have removed my breeches, if I didn’t want you to clean me down there too?” Sandor asked in false affront as he rose from the ground, his chains jingling with the movement.

 

Sill on her knees, the girl began brushing her rag over Sandor’s feet and ankles with the same insufferable perfectionism she had previously used for his arms. Slowly, she got to his calves, working on both legs at once as she rubbed her soap into the hair that grew there. Gazing down at her, Sandor was instantly stirred by the sight she made as she worked on his legs - eyes lowered dutifully. Somehow, she managed to keep her angelic aura and demure demeanour even though Sandor’s erect manhood was shifting in the air at only a few inches from her head and the image was beyond arousing. Her pink lips were slightly open in concentration and the man couldn’t restrain himself from picturing how perfectly the head of his aching shaft would fit into her plump mouth. How would the little bird react if he dared make a move and slid his member between her parted lips? Would she kiss him there as timidly and softly as the blushing maiden she could still so easily pass for? Or perhaps would she open her mouth _even more_ and start caressing her warm and tender tongue all along his length. Growling, Sandor averted his eyes from her and took a deep, shivering breath. While he was resolute to let her finish washing him before he attempted anything, there was still no denying that the wait was growing _more and more_ agonising to him.

 

Reaching his thighs at last, the little bird massaged the soapy water all around them first, but then she slid her palms between his legs and began rubbing her rag and fingers there, moving upward in slow, maddening circle until she almost touched his balls. Her face was so near his groin at that moment that Sandor would have been ready to _swear_ he could feel her warm breath on his cock. Exhaling a deep, frustrated sigh, the man squirmed in place for a heartbeat, unable to control himself. His whole body was growing increasingly tense but most of all, it was his throbbing member that pained him and he was craving, oh so terribly, for some sort of friction or contact that might release at least a measure of the intolerable pressure he felt in his balls and cock.

 

Resisting the urge to seize himself in hand that was hastily overwhelming him, Sandor threw his head back and shut his eyes. “ _Gods_ , little bird. Do you really intend on torturing me like this for very long?” he muttered, unable to mask the desperation in his voice.

 

“ _Torture you_? All I want is for you to be completely clean, I assure you,” Sansa answered innocently, seemingly hurt by his assumption.

 

Sandor’s mouth twitched at that. He couldn’t help but suspect that she was not entirely honest and was in truth enjoying his obvious agony. The notion that she could revel in toying with him as she apparently did was both annoying and arousing to him. Jaw clenched tightly, the man rubbed both his hands over his face in exasperation while repeating to himself that it couldn’t very possibly be more than a question of seconds before he, at long last, felt the little bird’s delicate hands circle over his shaft.

 

For what appeared to him like a _buggering eternity_ , Sandor kept his eyes closed and waited for the girl to resume the bloody cleaning of his hide, but naught happened. The only sounds he could hear in the silence of the cell were the ones of water splashing and dripping as Sansa rinsed her rag in the cauldron and he wondered with some irritation, if she was not taking her long time on purpose again. Just as he was about to voice his impatience, Sandor felt the little bird shift in her position and move behind him. Even before he had a chance to form a single coherent thought in his mind, the girl poured warm water over his buttock and Sandor’s eyes instantly popped open at the sensation. Swiftly, he jerked his head around to look at the little bird and was astounded when he realised that the very noble _Lady of Winterfell_ and _Warden_ _of the buggering North_ was staring _directly_ at his arse. He almost barked a rough laugh at the absurd sight but his mirth quickly dissolved once the little bird began spreading lather all over his backside with her bare hands and kneading the cheeks with her palms.

 

By some mysterious means, Sansa was still succeeding in maintaining her usual demure bearing – albeit the fact that she was massaging his _bloody_ arse! It was amazing how her maidenly attitude made the whole scene seem almost _legitimate_ but Sandor wasn’t fooled. It wasn’t of course. Nevertheless, no matter how unforeseen her actions might have been, what was unquestionably the most surprising to him was the way Sansa kept blushing shyly and biting at her bottom lip. _Is she enjoying this?_

 

The notion that the view of his arse could somehow rouse something in her was confounding to him. Never before had he considered that _this_ _place_ of his autonomy could possibly be of any interest to a female and _especially not_ one as highborn and well bread as the little bird. To be honest, he had never even contemplated that any part of his ravaged body could awaken much desire in women at all. Where coupling was concerned, Sandor had always paid when the urge had taken him and the whores he had bedded had never had eyes for anything but his gold. They had spread their legs wide open for him, moaned and writhed and never had given much attention to anything else than his cock. That the little bird would be so different from these women was naught surprising but Sandor would nonetheless never have predicted the disparity might have gone _that_ way. Yet, what sort of men complained when he learned that despite the appearances, the female he lusted for was as licentious and eager as him? _Not me,_ Sandor mused with a wolfish smirk.

 

Just as he was starting to get used to the queer caresses and relaxing under Sansa’s touch, the girl unexpectedly began brushing her rag between his arse’s cheeks. At the contact, Sandor’s eyes immediately grew wide and his breath caught in his throat. _What the hells is she doing?_ he wondered, totally bewildered, while twisting his head around once more to stare down at her.

 

“Little bird…?” he breathed just as she lowered her rag and rinsed it in the cauldron.

 

“I’m almost done,” she replied even before he had a chance the add anything.

 

Her face was flushed a deep shade of pink with what had all the semblance of girlish timidity and her eyes were modestly lowered, making it hard for Sandor to believe she had truly done any of what she just had. Exhaling deeply and raising his stare, the man straightened his back and snorted a short, confounded laugh while incredulously shaking his head.

 

His heartbeat was only beginning to regain its regular rhythm when the little bird suddenly retrieved her place before him. Momentarily distracted by her previous _improper_ actions, Sandor had _almost_ forgotten how incredibly aroused she had gotten him, however the man was abruptly reminded of his state an instant later by the sensation of warm water being poured over his erect cock. _Oh, by the fucking Seven. Finally!_ he cried out inwardly, infinitely relieved that the girl’s cruel _little game_ was at last coming to its bloody end. There was naught human in the way she had treated him tonight but all would soon be forgotten once his manhood was sheathed between her thighs and his hands roaming all over the smoothness of her curves. He really couldn’t wait much longer though; his patience had already exceeded its limit more than thrice.

 

Oblivious to the misery she was inflicting him – or mayhap not that much – Sansa wringed her rag over his shaft another time, then rinsed the fabric in the cauldron and repeated the process again. And again…. And then… again.

 

 _What the fuck is she doing?_ Sandor wondered with building irritation. The feel of the warm water running down the length of his painfully stiff shaft was perhaps better than nothing at all but still, he yearned for far more than what the soft contact of the liquid provided. There was not a bloody, fucking way Sandor could take any more of that _ridiculous_ torment, and thus without even thinking it over, he circled his member with his fist and began pumping it, a relieved groan immediately escaping his lips. The girl had heated his senses to such an extend that the first couple of strokes were almost painful. Still, Sandor had never needed to fuck his hand so badly, and so he tightened the circle of his fingers around his width and increased his speed.

 

At the sight, the little bird gasped in shock. “Wait! You’re not even completely clean yet!” she complained with obvious displeasure.

 

“Sorry, little bird,” Sandor rasped insincerely under his breath, without halting in the comings-and-goings of his hand. With each of his movements, the jingling sound of his tether resounded in the cell.

 

“Stop it!” Sansa ordered while seizing his chain and pulling at it with all her force until Sandor lost hold of his manhood. When his baffled gaze fell over her, Sansa frowned and pouted at him, her disapproval plain. “You didn’t even let me finish!” she scolded him softly.

 

Dizzy with unsatisfied desire, Sandor bit his lip and stared down at her in a mix of confusion and anger. “Fine then,” he hissed between gritted teeth while edgily stretching his neck from one side to the other. “Go on, woman, but don’t you _dare_ tease me much longer,” he warned her, threateningly pointing a finger at her.

 

Slightly taken aback by the strength of his reaction, the little bird stared at him with wide eyes for a short instant but then, a small smile crept at the corner of her lips. “You’re really imputing me the worst intentions!” she said with a hint of laughter in her voice before lowering her gaze again.

 

Grinning, she dipped her rag in the warm water and poured the liquid over Sandor’s shaft for what seemed to him like the buggering _hundredth_ time over the last minutes. Thankfully, she seemed satisfied _at long last_ that his groin was soaked enough and abandoned her rag to take the soap in hands instead. Rubbing the loaf between her palms until white foam appeared, she tossed it over the floor and began massaging the coarse hair that surrounded Sandor’s manhood. Her soft fingers were gently caressing that part of him - brushing the base of his cock more than once in the process - but then again, the damned girl was in no bloody hurry to touch him properly. Exactly as an itch redoubles after it’s been scratched, Sandor’s member was now pulsing even more intently than prior to his failed attempt at assuaging himself. The thing was twitching before him and begging to be touched but still, the little bird ignored its pleas. To all appearances, she had not an ounce of pity in her heart for his neglected cock.

 

“By the damned Stranger, little bird! This is getting _too fucking much_. I just can’t-” Sandor began before being silenced by the feel of the girl’s palms tenderly enveloping his balls. Hardly managing not the let out a lament, Sandor jolted in place and inhaled deeply to calm himself. “Gods, little bird. You’ll kill a man if you torment him so for too long and I’m not bloody kidding here! Tell me you’re soon going to get to my cock. I’m _fucking_ begging you now, you hear me? Tell me…” he trailed off, realising how pathetic he sounded. If Sansa had a will to destroy him, to make him lose the scarce pieces of spirit and pride that still habited him, she had indeed found the right manner. Was she trying to avenge herself from the many times he had wronged her while they both lived in King’s Landing?

 

Just as he was pondering the idea, the little bird finally laid hand over his _desperate_ cock. With caution, she spread soapy water over its length with fingers as light as butterfly wings. The softness of her touch was a far stretch from the solid pressure he was aching for, nevertheless Sandor couldn’t stop his breathing from growing increasingly ragged at the sensation. Panting, the man was keeping his gaze on the little bird, both irked and stirred by the control she had over the situation and the excessive thoroughness she had showed over the whole process. Feeling his stare on her, she glanced up at him and smiled timidly before returning her attention to his manhood, circling its width and pulling down the skin that hooded it. With her other hand, she began massaging lather on the uncovered part of Sandor’s cock and the man couldn’t help but shiver in delight and let out a hoarse groan at the much prayed for contact. Still, there was not denying that these caressed were executed with the purpose of washing him and lacked the firmness he so terribly longed for. The girl’s evil little game wasn’t over yet and she would most likely do her damned possible to make it last until the very last buggering instant.

 

“Am I clean enough to your taste _now_ , little bird?” Sandor muttered, jaw clenched and eyes narrowed at her in a mix of desire and exasperation.

 

Since she had arrived in his cell, Sansa had poured so much water over him that a large puddle had formed around both of them and while water was dripping all over Sandor’s body, the girl’s state wasn’t much better than his. Her dressing gown was almost entirely soaked and clinging to her curves in the most alluring fashion imaginable and the end of her long, red curls was sodden, its colour a dark shade of crimson.

 

“Not completely,” she answered, rubbing her thumb and forefinger around the base of the head of Sandor’s manhood, slowly tracing its shape before stoking the rest, until even the drop of seed that pearled at its end had been washed away.

 

Sandor was on the verge of completely losing it when the girl finally circled his swollen member properly and began _at long fucking last_ to move her fist up and down as firmly as he had thirsted for all along.

 

If he had been a weaker man, tears might actually have pooled in Sandor’s eyes at the intense alleviation he felt at that moment. Unable to speak at first, he stayed silent for the time of a few breaths, keeping his eyes shut to allow himself to completely get absorbed by the friction of her hand on him. After a few seconds though, the man began to regain some of his senses and just as soon, ire started seeping into his ecstatic, trance-like state.

 

“You cruel little bird! Do you realise you almost _killed_ _me_ with your bloody game?” he chided her with honest resentment while glaring down at her. “Who taught you to be so pitiless with men?”

 

“I thought I was being generous! You badly needed a bath after all,” Sansa explained seemingly puzzled that he could be blaming her. Without halting in the movement of her hand, she stared up at him with big, sad eyes, probably hoping to melt away his grudges with her warm sweetness and of course, the stratagem succeeded. How could he stay angry at such a stunning woman – especially while she stroked his cock?

 

Shutting his eyes, Sandor grunted in pleasure and raised a hand to caress the little bird’s hair, his chain clattering with the motion. “I agree with that but still, you didn’t have to make me linger as you did,” he rasped more calmly. “Oh by the Seven Hells, little bird, pump harder.”

 

She did as he bid her, smiling happily at him

 

“Aye, like that. Oh, little bird,” he groaned. “I thought you’d never reach my cock. I thought you’d let me dry out and die of lust…” the man whispered almost desperately while reliving his previous ordeal. “Why did you do that? Were you trying to punish me for all the wrong I did you? If that was your will, I assure you it worked. You made me suffer-”

 

“I never intended to _torture_ _you,_ as you said earlier. I’m not cruel!” Sansa cut him, clearly piqued by his accusation.

 

“Not cruel?” Sandor snorted at the foolishness of her statement. “You don’t know what you’re saying, girl. No woman has ever been so _cruel_ to me. And you took pleasure in it, you little pervert. I’ve seen it.”

 

At that the little bird frowned and slowed the pace of her stokes. “You shouldn’t call the lady who detains you a _pervert_.”

 

“How the fuck do you expect being called after you obviously _enjoyed_ tormenting me tonight and nearly _raped_ me yesterday? I didn’t mind the last of course and you know it well enough - but by the buggering Seven! – what sort of women does that kind of things?” Sandor asked, while letting his hand trail from her hair to her neck in a soft caress. “Are northern men so impotent that you jumped over the first visitor to come to Winterfell since you’ve been enthroned or was it because you husbands’ cocks were so small, they never managed to satisfy you and left you starving for a real man?”

 

“My _husbands_?” Sansa repeated with obvious displeasure. “What do they have to do with this? Why should you bring them up _now_ out of all time?” With that, she removed her hand from his shaft.

 

Unsettled by the sudden lack of stimulation, Sandor lowered his gaze to the little bird. She had folded her arms before her and lost her pretty smile. “What’s the matter?” he asked sharply, too irked that she had stopped stroking him to control his tone.

 

“You think that by insulting both my late husbands and people, and by calling me a _pervert_ you’ll get me to continue pleasuring you?” she demanded in a calm but huffy voice.

 

At a lost as to how he should answer, Sandor let his acerbic tongue take the lead. “Well you can’t bloody contradict that you jumped on me as a starved wolf on a lost sheep, can you?” He uttered a short, rough laugh at that. “How can you blame me for wondering what got into you afterward and making my own assumptions?”

 

“Wonder all you like but next time, you’d be kind to keep your crude thoughts to yourself,” she retorted, standing up. “I have no obligation towards you. I was generous enough to help you bathe since you could hardly do it on your own but now that you’re clean, if you’re to be mean to me, I don’t see why I should stay here.”

 

While her tone was poised, her body language was clear; Sandor had offended her. Putting a woman to her place wasn’t something Sandor usually minded doing but the current situation was much different from any other he had ever lived previously. He was in tethers after all and in many ways … _totally_ at the little bird’s mercy. The very idea of his powerlessness made him _sick_ , still the notion that Sansa might be angry enough to leave him without opening her legs for him was even more dreadful to him.

 

“Oh come one, little bird, don’t be so touchy. I may have spoken harshly but I didn’t mean to insult you. You can’t really have taken my words for granted,” he murmured more calmly than he felt while laying a gentle hand over her upper arm.

 

“You should be more careful with that harsh tongue of yours then. Most people don’t smell lies as easily as you,” she replied while shrugging his hand away and taking a step back. “You’ve hurt me. And besides, mentioning a woman’s _late husbands_ she didn’t even choose for herself is perhaps the biggest turn off a man could think of.”

 

Sandor’s mouth twitched at that. Things were not looking good for him. “I’m sorry, Sansa,” he forced himself to say. “Come back and I’ll make you both forget them and forgive me at once,” he promised, advancing toward her.

 

With the intent of catching her by the wrist and prevent her from going any further, Sandor took a step ahead and raised his arm but his motion was abruptly stopped by his now taut as a bow tethers. A loud clang instantly resounded in the cell and the force of the rebound almost threw him over the ground. _The damned chains!_ Sandor remembered in sudden irritation while regaining his balance.

 

The sight seemed to amuse the little bird who smiled faintly from her place, so near and unreachable at once.

 

“I forgive you,” she said softly after a few seconds, her smile broadening slightly. “For tonight however, I think I’d rather go back to my chambers and spend some time alone. Perhaps next time I visit, if you’re nicer to me, I’ll stay a little longer with you. For now though, I really can’t.” She gave him a sad look at that as if she truly regretted the turn of event. “You’re still a prisoner after all and I’d really lack respect over myself if I allowed _my own_ _captive_ to speak the words you did and not punish him someway or another.”

 

Sandor almost burst out laughing when he heard her intentions. “You can’t be serious, little bird. Leaving me without a fuck after you’ve heated my blood as you did is almost as cruel as cutting a man’s wrists and then, leaving him by himself to die his slow and painful death. It’s not bloody _human_!”

 

“Oh come on now,” she told him without even bothering to mask her mirth. “You’ve shown me earlier you knew very well how to assuage yourself on you own. I won’t be shedding a single tear for you tonight. I’ll come back tomorrow though; you have my word on it.”

 

With that, she turned around and strode to the door.

 

“Wait!” Sandor shouted while cursing the chains that tied him to the wall.    

 

Without so much as glancing back at him, the little bird shut the door behind her and abandoned him to his misery. _Shit!_ he mused – incredulous - while staring at the closed door for a long moment. After what appeared like at least an hour to him but was probably just a couple of minutes, Sandor exhaled an indignant snort and picked up the large towel Sansa had left for him on the floor. Once he was dried enough, he returned to his bed, laid over it and immediately seized his cock in hand. Things had mayhap gone all wrong for him tonight but at least, he could try to consol himself with the idea that his wrists hadn’t been attached _directly_ to the wall. There was always worst.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here’s the last chapter of this little smutty story. Once again, this fic is not betaed.   
> Hope you’ll all enjoy and remember that comments are loved! :)

**Sansa**

 

The first rays of light were only starting to colour the cold northern sky with their beautiful pink hue when Sansa pushed the thick curtains of her window and opened the shutters. Her room was immediately invaded with a burst of freezing air but its bite was somehow invigorating and Sansa smiled at the much loved feel.

 

Just as she was about to shut the glass shutters, her attention got suddenly drawn by the small figure of a flying raven that she saw heading toward the maester’s quarter out the corner of her eye. The small room where the birds were housed was accessible without trespassing the maester’s personal chambers and therefore, Sansa had taken a habit in fetching the messages sent to Winterfell herself on the occasions she had glimpsed a raven approaching at such an early hour. As much as receiving any news from the rest of the realm always piqued her curiosity, the fact that Sandor Clegane had told her that a missive had been sent from the capital to inform her of his innocence in the Saltpan’s massacre decupled the excitement Sansa usually felt at such a sight. Without even waiting an extra instant, she threw a cloak over her dressing gown, opened the door and ran to the maester’s quarter.

 

The raven was already waiting to be let in, settled over the perch outside the glass shutters when she arrived to the small, bird dropping smelling room. A moment later she opened the window, hands trembling with anxiety. The raven instantly hopped inside and Sansa led it to the large cage where a group of other birds waited, nestled against each other, and large quantities of seeds, grains and water were left in permanence. Before it had a chance to join his fellow birds, Sansa didn’t forget to unbind the small piece of paper that had been tied around the raven’s leg and in a question of seconds, she was already leaned next to the window, the message unfolded and ready to be read.

 

Shaking as much from the coldness of the room as from anticipation, Sansa couldn’t stop her eyes at first from jumping from one word to the other with the same erratic speed a hummingbird has as it flies from flower to flower. Only once she was reassured the missive didn’t hold any bad news was she able to allow her eyes to travel over the writing at a normal pace. Obsessively, she then read and reread the message, over and over again, until she was absolutely certain she hadn’t misunderstood its meaning.

 

Sansa’s heart was pounding with the same force the steeple’s bells of the Great Sept of Baelor resound with through King’s Landing on grand occasions and her lips were curling of their own accord into a wide grin. Sandor Clegane had been officially cleared of all crimes he had ever been accused of and was as free as any other honest man to travel and work anywhere he liked throughout the Seven Kingdoms. The confirmation was exhilarating to Sansa. Although she had never doubted his claim, to hold the proof of his words in her own hands was an undeniable relief.

 

Nevertheless, once the first few moments of pure exaltation had passed, Sansa’s mood quickly began to sour - if only slightly. Albeit she wasn’t truly mad at him anymore, she hadn’t really appreciated some of the crude comments the Hound had made on the last occasion she had visited him in his cell. It was of course to be expected from him that he’d say anything he thought and never take care to censure any of his ideas – however awful they were. Still, as he was her captive, Sansa had felt she couldn’t let him insult her without making him pay for his disrespect in some way or another. In the situation they had been in at the time of his misbehaviour – her cleaning him, and him being so… undeniably… _interested_ _in more_ – it had seemed only natural that she didn’t give him the only thing he truly yearned for and leave him on his own instead. That had been two days ago and she hadn’t came back to see him since.

 

Sandor Clegane had called her cruel and stated that she was purposely teasing him with the meticulousness she had used while bathing him and the idea wasn’t a pleasing one to Sansa. Still, although it mortified her to admit it to herself, she couldn’t deny that she had indeed enjoyed witnessing the man squirm and complain in obvious burning and urgent need under her _innocent_ touch. While the very idea made her blush in shame, the power she had held over him had intoxicated her and sent her core throbbing almost painfully in a way she had never experienced previously. Notwithstanding her own thirst, she had felt it necessary though that she kept her thighs closed as a septa on that night in order to show him that as long as he was her prisoner, she couldn’t allow him to treat her so. It had pained her to leave his solid and male body and swollen, massive manhood while her folds screamed in longing to be invaded, however some sacrifice required to be done from time to time for the sake of statements to be made. Thereby, she had left him and strode to her chambers to take care of her need herself, as she was certain Sandor Clegane had also done on his own.

 

The Hound had told her that he had ridden to Winterfell with the intention of serving her from the moment he had been officially cleared and Sansa had accepted his offer as soon as he had spoken the words. She was still more than willing to give him a place at the castle. Winterfell was in dire need of a capable man-at-arm and Sandor Clegane would fill the post perfectly. Not to mention that in that role, he would be expected to stay by Sansa’s side most of the time, which was all she truly wished for. Sill, some suppressed part of her wasn’t totally glad of all the control she would soon lose over him. Even as a retainer, the Hound would never let himself be walked over or shy away from taking liberties – it had never been his ways, even while he served the Lannisters. Things would change in the blink of an eye once the man was freed from his chains, Sansa realised once more while breathing out a deep sigh. _Well, nothing lasts forever,_ she reasoned. _At least, I had the occasion to live the experience._ Although, perhaps…

 

Perhaps she should have a little fun – _just one last time_ \- before she told him the good news. There wouldn’t be naught really dishonest about acting so and as it was her last chance of being the mighty one between the two of them, why shouldn’t she indulge herself? she wondered, blushing in shame at her own brazen intensions while biting her bottom lip in building hunger.

 

****

 

The Hound was asleep when Sansa stepped inside his cell. He had put his breeches back on since the last time she saw him but as he hadn’t been given any new tunic, he lay with his blankets tightly wrapped around his bare chest.

 

The sound of her soft treads against the stone floor awoke him almost instantly. In an instant, his eyes popped open and his already alert gaze darted toward her. “You came back,” he rasped flatly while sitting up on his makeshift bed, his voice rough with the last remnant of sleep.

 

“You thought I’d abandon you here forever?” Sansa asked him, the corner of her lips pulling up into a small smile. The idea was slightly ridiculous to her.

 

Sandor Clegane snorted softly at that. “How the fuck was I to know?” he retorted, seemingly irritated by her amusement. “Seems like I don’t understand a damned thing about you _bloody women_.”

 

For a long moment after the bitter words left his mouth, silence stretched awkwardly between them. Sansa was unsure of what she might tell him to soothe the boiling anger that still unmistakably lingered in him. As for the Hound, he was staring at her, resentment shining in his dark eyes, but at least he kept his mouth shut and didn’t utter a single comment or complaint. Mayhap had he learned something from her last visit after all.

 

After a couple of minutes, Sansa bit her lip, turned around and threw her cloak over the ground not far from the closed door. At a loss for words, she decided to let her actions speak for themselves. When she faced the Hound again, he was looking at her in a mix of curiosity, annoyance and wariness, his head slightly tilted to the side. Locking her stare to his, Sansa smiled shyly and blushed, heart pounding madly, while untying the rope of her dressing gown before letting the garment fall open around her. The man’s eyes widened instantly at the sight of her nakedness. Well aware that her underclothes wouldn’t be of much use for the sort of activity she had planned devoting herself to, Sansa had left the piece of clothe in her room and she was pleased with her wise decision now that she beheld the Hound’s reaction. Through its small window, the dawning light permeated the whole cell, giving him his first good view of her body and for a short instant, he seemed completely absorbed by what he saw. His obvious interest giving her courage, Sansa pushed her dressing gown from her shoulders and carelessly let it fall over the floor.

 

At that, the Hound raised his stare from her curves and gazed at her, eyes suddenly narrowed with suspicion. “What’s that again?” he demanded harshly, mouth twitching. “Didn’t have enough fun already last time you came here? Or perhaps did you have _too much fun_ and want to repeat the damned experience?”

 

Far from certain on how she should answer, Sansa simply took a few steps toward him and pushed her long hair aside in a seductive gesture, her lips curling into a coy smile. She was still too far for him to reach her if he stood and Sandor Clegane obviously knew it, judging by the way he was glaring at her.

 

Snorting with something akin to rage, the man turned his head aside and averted his eyes from her, frustration oozing from him. “You won’t drag me in you buggering _game_ this time around, little bird. I’m warning you: you’re _losing_ your _fucking_ time,” he hissed between his teeth, his tone as sharp as Valyrian steel.

 

Although his reaction wasn’t exactly what she had hoped for, Sansa could glimpse the tightness of his breeches from where she stood. No matter how resolute his words, he had already lost that round also. The knowledge gave her the nerves she needed to try something she highly suspected would draw his attention on her again. Breathing in deeply, Sansa began caressing her breasts with one hand while the other trailed down her side until it landed over her mound. Playing with the dark auburn hair that grew there, she watched as the Hound furtively glanced at her out the corner of his eyes without turning his head toward her. Sansa almost giggled at the sight of his manly weakness. She had a pretty good idea on how to kill the last shred of resistance that he still so stubbornly insisted in using against her and decided that she should act _immediately_.

 

In a deliberate slow movement, Sansa lowered her fingers over her folds and let them slid between their silky lips, feeling her own wetness while uttering a small moan. The Hound instantly tensed, eyes grown wide and jaw clenched tightly, but still didn’t turn to stare directly at her. It didn’t matter; it was only a question of seconds before he gave up, Sansa didn’t have a shadow of doubt about it.

 

However evident it was to her, the man nevertheless still tried to convince himself that he was stronger than they both knew he was. “Quit your little show; it’s _useless_. You won’t get a damned thing from me as long as you’re not on all fours somewhere I can reach you,” he grunted, his head slowly turning toward her without him probably even noticing it.

 

The battle was almost won and it wouldn’t be very long before Sandor Clegane realised it too.

 

Throwing her head back, Sansa raised her fingers to her sensitive little nub and began shifting them over it, letting out a whimper at the exquisite sensation while grabbing one of her breasts with her other hand. Less than a heartbeat later, she heard the Hound abruptly standing up and striding in her direction, his chains clanging loudly when he reached their limit. The sound startling her, Sansa lowered her eyes from the ceiling to see him looming over her at about a step away, his tethers taut behind him.

 

“Damned you woman!” he snarled menacingly, eyes wild. “You truly want me to lose it completely, do you?”

 

This was too much and Sansa couldn’t hold back a short giggle from escaping her lips.

 

“You really are a cruel little bird to mock me so,” Sandor Clegane muttered darkly as he unlaced his breeches and freed his hard and heavy manhood. Without waiting even so much as a single second, he circled his hand around its width and began stroking himself. “You think I forgot how you moaned so very _sweetly_ on that first time you visited me and jumped over my cock? _I didn’t_ of course. And you know it well enough too. Come closer and I’ll fuck you so hard, you’ll forget anything else exists in the whole buggering wide world apart from my cock and you cunt. You’ll scream my name without even realising it and beg me to-”

 

Sansa didn’t even let him finish. She wasn’t as cruel as he pretended she was and besides, she really longed to feel his stiff member sheathed deeply between her thighs. He wasn’t wrong in that.

 

Smiling shyly, she removed her hands from her body and took a single step toward him. The man didn’t lose an instant and seized her by the waist, yanking her to him. His hold on her was so strong it almost hurt. It was evident he wouldn’t let her go.

 

“I’ve got you, little bird,” the Hound murmured threateningly in her ear, his breath warm against her burning cheek. “You’ll soon learn how a dog avenges himself after he’s been left out. Ready to be fucked _raw_?” he asked wickedly while dragging her to his makeshift bed.

 

She was. Shutting her eyes, Sansa let him lower her on all fours all the while groaning in a mix of desire and anticipation.

 

Holding her tightly around the hips, Sandor Clegane kneeled behind her. There was no way she could ever flee from him now, for his grip on her was far too strong but Sansa had no intention to escape. On the contrary, she couldn’t wait for his thick member to enter her and could feel her lady’s parts seeping with moisture at the sole thought of what was inevitably coming her way. Instinctively, she spread her legs wide apart to offer the Hound the best access possible and shut her eyes, moaning softly.

 

Grunting, the man removed one of his hands from Sansa’s hips. “Don’t try to flee,” he ordered while aiming his shaft into her entrance with no foreplay whatsoever. Its head slid into her as smoothly as a hot knife through butter and the Hound growled with satisfaction at finding her so welcoming. “By the Seven buggering Hells, little bird, but you’re _soaked_ ,” he rasped under his breath while settling his hand back over her hip. “You really want me to fuck you, don’t you? It’s your lucky day: that’s all I long for _too_. I’ll give you what you yearn for, no worries to have.” Speaking his last words, Sandor Clegane finished impaling her in one neither-too-fast-nor-too-slow shove, careful not to hurt her, for even though he didn’t meet much resistance in the wetness of her cleft, the size of him was still so large that he might have otherwise.

 

The sharp sensation it elicited was slightly painful but still, _beyond_ exhilarating to Sansa and she couldn’t hold back a cry of pleasure from escaping her lips. While her insides were completely stretched around the impressive width of Sandor Clegane’s member, depths that had never been claimed by anyone but him were also being assailed in the most wonderful manner. The knowledge of how the man’s shaft filled her so very completely was once more intoxicating to her and was enough to make her lose all wit and sense of pride she had. No coherent thought could form in her mind anymore; it was as if her most basic self had taken the lead and chassed away the proper and smart young woman she usually was, leaving in place a licentious creature that lived only to be taken as vigorously as possible.

 

“Oh, please…” she moaned when she became impatient that Sandor Clegane’s assault truly began.

 

Snorting, the Hound began massaging Sansa’s hips with fingers as firm as steel. “Polite in bed too? Couldn’t say I’m surprised,” he muttered with some amusement, his gravelly voice rougher than ever. “Go on. Tell me what you want from me. After all, what’s a captive like me to do but to obey his _gaoler_?”

 

At his demand, Sansa blushed and bit her lip. It was one thing to undress and lower herself on all fours before the Hound but to speak her desire openly was somehow exceedingly embarrassing to her. Still, she really wanted the man to invade her with all his might, and so she decided she’d rather be bashful than unsatisfied. “F… fuck me… _hard_ … As you promised,” she breathed, her whole body burning red with shame and her eyes shut as tightly as she could.

 

Sandor Clegane uttered a short, low laugh at hearing her response. “I always keep my word, little bird,” he rasped while slowly beginning to move his shaft inside of her, his chains jingling softly as he did so. Gradually, his movement both hastened and broadened and the sound of his tethers became more intense. “Your cunt’s warmer than the Seven Hells, _believe me_ ,” the man murmured once the rhythm of their coitus was as fast as she had previously fancied. “Never thought anything burning could feel so bloody good,” he hissed before groaning loudly.

 

With more and more force, the man let his manhood slide in and out of Sansa’s slick folds and with each of his shoves, she whimpered in the most unladylike fashion, tears pearling in her eyes. Never before had she been taken with so much strength and desperation. The fact that she had abandoned the Hound to himself while he was clearly extremely aroused on the last occasion she had visited him had apparently left him famished for her cleft and given him the fury of a wild beast. Every thrust of his member in her was filled with the force of his resentment but Sandor Clegane’s revenge was one Sansa enjoyed grandly and she couldn’t find it in her to regret having given him cause to avenge himself.

 

“You love it, don’t you? Being fucked by a _bloody dog_? Feeling my cock _deep_ inside your cunt?” he rasped, his breathing coming more and more ragged. When she didn’t reply, the man bore his fingers into her skin and lowered himself over her. “Say it,” he whispered dryly in her hair. “I want to hear your sweet voice tell me how much you enjoy being dirtied by someone as vile and unsavoury as the Hound.”

 

Biting her lip in a mix of mortification and intent arousal, Sansa let her wanton instinct take the lead once more and gave the man what he asked for. “Yes… I do,” she cried meekly. “Please don’t stop.”

 

Snorting a short, hoarse laugh, the Hound began pushing his member even harder into her, the cold steel of his chains bumping into her backside and thighs as he did so. “Oh, I won’t. There’s _nothing_ in the whole fucking world that’ll prevent me from spilling myself in you this morning. You even deserve a double ration for being so cruel with me and I’ll make sure you get it, _deep_ inside your belly.”

 

Sansa moaned at his promise. She had not an ounce of objection at being taken so savagely and to be shown the colour of his wrath in such a manner. There was no doubting though, that the Hound couldn’t last for very long at the frantic cadence he had chosen. His hands were locked around Sansa’s hips and pushing her against his groin with impressive urgency in a way that made it clear a part of him still feared she’d fly away from him if he’d so much as loosened his hold on her. He evidently planned on spilling himself as quickly as possible while he had her in his grasp.

 

In some way, he was using her. Most men usually stroked their partner’s curves as they took them and that without being prayed to, but the Hound had reached a point where such considerations didn’t even cross his mind anymore. All he seemingly cared about was to empty himself as hastily as he could and Sansa’s own pleasure, or even any part of her body that wasn’t what lay hidden between her thighs, had in all appearance lost any interest to his eyes. Shockingly though, the idea of being used as a mere _hole_ by the Hound - of being his _thing -_ was somehow incredibly stirring to Sansa. She was beyond willing to lose herself in that role and to become naught more than his bitch for the time being.

 

Nevertheless, there was no denying that she also _really_ longed to see her own need fulfilled before the man behind her reached his predictably violent climax and lost all his energy and thus, she resolved on forcing the matter on him. Barely managing to keep her balance while doing so, Sansa raised her palm from the ground and reached for Sandor Clegane’s hand. Startled by the contact, the Hound would probably have interrupted his raging rhythm if not for Sansa who didn’t falter - not even for so much as a second - from eagerly pushing her pelvis against him. While doing so, the young woman circled her fingers around his and pulled at his hand, bringing it between her legs, just over her sensitive nub. The Hound understood immediately what she hinted and compliantly let her show him how she wanted to be caressed.

 

“The little bird needs to be tickled too?” he rasped in a tone filled with lust, while stirring his fingers under hers, his chain jingling softly with the movement.

 

As a reply, Sansa moaned wantonly, delighted by the sensation of his rough hand on her.

 

Once she was certain Sandor Clegane would do a decent job on his own, Sansa settled her hands onto the floor again, instantly amazed at how a fast learner the man was. The contact of his calloused fingers over her sensitive little pearl added to the continuous feel of his large manhood going back and forth into her entrance was so overwhelmingly good that Sansa quickly realised it wouldn’t be very long before she came into completion. She would be reaching her peak before the Hound after all.

 

“Faster,” she demanded, all the while whimpering with growing force.

 

Panting and totally out of breath, Sandor Clegane nonetheless managed to voice a response. “Faster with what? My cock or my fingers?” he asked, sounding equally exhausted and excited.

 

“Both,” Sansa cried almost at the same time.

 

The man didn’t wait a single second before complying with her request. At once, he began hammering her insides with regained strength and speed while pressing his fingers over her nub in the same wild cadence, the steel of his tethers clattering increasingly loudly. Almost instantly, Sansa was blinded by a violent flash of white lighting and the loudest lament she had ever heard herself utter escaped her lips. Her limbs started shacking and she threw her head backward, biting at her lip while letting a deep and overpowering heat sweep over her whole self, body and soul, for a few blissful seconds.

 

Just as she was beginning to come down from her climax, the Hound groaned loudly, increased his already frantic speed – if only slightly – and tightened his hold on her. Then without warning, he let out a deep moan and halted almost completely in his movement. As he gave a few last slow thrust, the man’s warm seed spilled into Sansa’s belly and ran down her folds. The sensation was queerly pleasurable and she suddenly became grateful that she would feel it again soon and as often as she wanted from now on, for Sandor Clegane would now be part of her day to day life.

 

Moments later, they were both lying over the Hound’s makeshift bed, slowly and silently coming round. Distractedly looking out the window, Sansa abruptly realised how late it appeared to be. _How long did I stay in here?_ she wondered nervously. She had better dress and leave the Hound’s cell before anyone noticed her absence.

 

Without waiting so much as an additional instant, she rose from her place and strode to where she had left her dressing gown.

 

“Going already?” the Hound asked. He was still naked, legs and arms spread lazily around him and didn’t even bother to raise his head when he spoke. “That’s fine with me though. You have a lot to do - I’m bloody certain - as the _Lady of Winterfell_ after all. As long as you come back, I won’t complain. Until then, I’ll take a little nap and make _sweet dreams_ about your cunt.”

 

At that, Sansa let out an offended gasp, but then she sighed and shook her head in false despair. Was there truly anything surprising about a man such as Sandor Clegane speaking so coarsely? In some twisted way, she had to admit that she did enjoy his crudeness.

 

 _Oh! I should tell him about the raven before I go!_ Sansa suddenly remembered as she was picking up her cloak from the floor. Somehow, she had briefly forgotten about the missive although it was the main reason she had decided to visit the Hound this morning.

 

Settling her cloak over her shoulders, Sansa turned around to look at the man. He hadn’t stirred from his position and was still laid on his back over his bed, his chest heaving up and down in the slow cadence of someone dozing off. At the view, Sansa sighed deeply. It had been so very convenient to have him here in his cell, always available… Of course, he would still live in Winterfell once his irons were taken from his wrists and she certainly had no fear that his freedom diminished the lust he had for her in any way but still, things would become _so_ different from now on. True, she would be his lady and he, a simple retainer but a man as strong and powerful as the Hound would surely _never_ be easily dominated again, however low his rank.

 

Well, there was naught she could do about the situation but face reality and accept it, she reasoned as she approached the large shape of Sandor Clegane. “I have… some news for you,” she began softly.

 

The Hound didn’t reply. Was he sleeping already? Taking another step towards him, Sansa smiled when she heard his soft snoring and saw his closed eyes. _I’ll need to wake him up,_ she mused, but then, she thought better of it. After all the energy he had spent taking her as hard as she had asked and the lost of fluid he had gone through, it would indeed be very cruel of her to do such a _selfish_ thing. The _poor man_ badly needed some rest.

 

No, she wouldn’t bother his sleep. The good news certainly could wait _a little_ … What would a day or two… or three or four, change in the end anyhow? After all, who other than herself was aware that the missive the queen had sent had arrived? No one would know if she kept it a secret just a little while longer…

 

With that, Sansa smiled and carefully shut the door behind her, leaving the Hound to the sweetness of his dreams.

 

**THE END**

 

 


End file.
